by Hafsa Zayyan
Sameer wonders where the rest of Ibrahim’s extensive family are; those who don’t live under this roof. He tries to remember which of the people at the table were Ibrahim’s siblings, which were his children and which were nieces and nephews, but his mind draws a blank.
‘Your grandfather’s business grew to be very successful and my father started helping out. He proved himself quite quickly, and by the time I was ready for secondary school he was the general manager of your family’s retail business. It was quite rare at that time to see an Asian and Ugandan working together so closely and so successfully. They were a model for the wider community.’
Sameer glances around the table half sheepishly; the faces of Ibrahim’s family are glowing with a pride that reflects back onto him. He blushes, simultaneously pleased and embarrassed to be associated by birth with this man. Why had his parents never told him this before?
‘Then, well, you know what happened of course, the Asians were told they had to leave. Ninety days to pack up their belongings and go. Those were very difficult days, under Amin. By that time, Sameer, I was in the army and certain of us were not looked upon very favourably. I had to disappear.’
They talk late into the evening without moving from the table; Sameer hears stories about his grandfather’s plans to expand Saeed & Sons into the rest of East Africa, the success of their cotton ginning business; he learns about the gradual stripping of his grandfather’s rights to citizenship, the revocation of his passport, the restrictions imposed by Uganda’s post-colonial government on Asian trade. Various members of the family join the conversation, asking Ibrahim their own questions or reliving distant memories from their childhood. Bellies full, conversation unending, dishes are left empty, neglected on the table; no one wants to leave to clear them away. The children run in and a small and particularly bold one, braided hair adorned with beads that clack against each other as she moves, clambers onto Sameer’s lap, throws her arms around his neck and begins to attempt to braid his hair to the sound of raucous laughter from the adults. Clutched in her hand is a small pink bead, presumably removed from her own hair as a token of friendship. ‘Ruqaya hasn’t quite developed an understanding of personal space,’ Maryam says, smiling and pulling the child (who is clinging so fiercely to Sameer’s hair that she nearly pulls it out) from his lap. There is something so natural, almost maternal, in this gesture, Maryam removing the small child from him, that when his eyes meet Maryam’s a strange ache comes to his consciousness, as if they had lived a past life together. The moment passes almost immediately.
Eventually, Ibrahim rises. ‘I do not have the stamina I used to,’ he says, resting a hand on Sameer’s shoulder. ‘But please know that you are welcome here any time. It has been a pleasure, really it has.’
Sameer does not want the evening to be over, but he doesn’t know how to extend it. Hours have passed in the space of minutes. He turns to face the various members of Maryam’s family, wanting to express thanks for their hospitality but suddenly at a loss for words.
‘Oh, before you go,’ Ibrahim interrupts these thoughts. ‘I have something for you. Don’t go anywhere.’ He disappears before Sameer can say a word.
The rest of the family say their goodbyes with salaams and hugs and kisses, Imran pressing a business card into his hand (‘Wild Uganda Tours – take a walk on the wild side!’), Ruqaya insisting he take one of her beads. Maryam waits with him outside on the porch for Ibrahim to return.
‘This was fun,’ she says spontaneously. ‘I’m glad you came.’
Sameer catches her eyes briefly before she looks away. He cannot make out her irises.
‘I didn’t realise how close our families were,’ she adds, tucking her scarf around her ear like it is a piece of hair.
‘Me neither,’ he admits, and this time when she looks up he notices that he can see the reflection of the moon doubled in her eyes.
‘I’ve got a free day on Wednesday,’ she says. ‘Would you like to see more of Kampala?’
‘Yes,’ he says, ‘I’d like that very much.’
They stand there for a moment, smiling at each other in the dim light. Then the front door swings open. Ibrahim is holding a package of paper wrapped in twine. ‘These are yours,’ he says quietly, handing the package to Sameer. ‘I have never opened it.’
‘What is it?’ Sameer asks, staring at the yellowing bundle.
‘Your grandfather left them here,’ says Ibrahim. A strange look flickers across his face – regret, perhaps, or sorrow. There is a moment when Sameer thinks Ibrahim might say something more but instead he gives a small smile and says: ‘Come now, Maryam. Goodnight, Sameer. Come again soon, won’t you?’
Before Sameer has the chance to ask more, before he even has the chance to say goodbye, they have slipped inside and closed the door, leaving him standing, bewildered, in the glow of the porch light. The Uber driver is waiting for him, but for a minute he does not move; the light switches off automatically and he stands in the darkness until he can make out the softly pointed shapes of the bougainvillea petals, their vivid colours neutralised by the moonlight.
16
To my first love, my beloved
2nd November 1972
I write to you from Entebbe airport. For the first time in my life, I am truly alone.
I had always thought after I lost you that I knew what it meant to be alone. But now that I have been separated from my children, my grandchildren, from Shabnam, now that I have been stripped so callously of everything that I possessed, the very basis upon which I believed I existed … I understand that, really, before, I was not alone. To be alone, truly, is not to know oneself. To wake at the darkest, deepest hour of the night and to have the sickening panic of not knowing who you are.
I am consumed with shame for what has been done to us. How would you have comprehended this? You came from India, aged seven, to a new country for a new life, leaving behind another home. Gujarati, your mother tongue; India, forever your mother home. Myself, I was born here; I never knew India. Papa came here in youth, at a time when you had the freedom to choose who you wished to be. He chose to become Ugandan; he came to shed himself of India. And as a result, my dear, I have no other home.
Amin said that it began with divine command – that Allah came to him in a dream and told him to expel us from Uganda; to seize our money, our property, our businesses, because we were sabotaging the economy. I was driving home from the office with Shahzeb when we heard Amin’s voice barking through the radio, delivering these fanatic proclamations – and more, now: that we should have ninety days to put our affairs in order and get out of his country; that we were Britain’s responsibility.
Perhaps my biggest mistake was that in the beginning I did not take him seriously. I was quietly cautious – as one must be with all political statements – but I did not believe that we would truly be forced to leave. The evening of the day that Amin made the announcement, I called a few of our close friends over to the house and we talked late into the night. I’m telling you, my dear, not one of us believed that it would actually happen.
‘There’ll be a reason for the announcement,’ Sakib rationalised. ‘Some kind of dispute he would have had with the British, it’ll be resolved soon enough. You know what he’s like, he changes his mind quicker than the rains come and go!’
‘Yes, this will all blow over by tomorrow,’ said Roshan. ‘We just need to get the Madhvanis’ daughter to agree to be his eighth wife!’
But matters were not resolved by the following day. Instead, the radio brought news that India had declared that it would not take Asians with British passports: again, India parroted, we were Britain’s responsibility. A panic descended upon Shahzeb, who began frantically to rifle through the papers in my office, pleading with me to visit the British High Commission to determine, once and for all, my citizenship status. I watched from the doorway, feeling nothing.
But, before I knew it, I was standing in the centre of Kampala, watching as
Mercedes after Mercedes departed the city forever. It was 9th of August, and Amin Dada had signed a decree cancelling all entry permits and residency certificates for non-citizens. The only official document I had from the Ugandan government – a flimsy piece of translucent paper, stamped to mark its authority – was now invalid.
At last, it dawned on me that this was no joke; no stunt designed to elicit some favour of which we were unaware, no: this was our reality. That truly I might have to leave Uganda was a reality.
So, how to stay?
Option 1: Amin had said that professionals – including lawyers – were exempt from the decree. Perhaps if Shahzeb could enter into legal practice, he could remain, and Shabnam and I could stay as his dependants.
‘Papa,’ Shazheb said gently, ‘Britain has agreed to take those of us with British passports. It has abandoned the quota system. I don’t have to stay … and I don’t want to. I’m sorry, Papa. Nadiya and I will go to Britain.’
This hurt deeply – more deeply than Shahzeb could have imagined – but, it being necessary in such moments to maintain one’s self-respect, I tried not to show it. I may have asked him once or twice to reconsider, but in the end, it mattered not – merely a few weeks passed and Amin had changed his mind. There was to be no exemption after all: All Asians Must Go.
Option 2: Amin had said that Asian Ugandan citizens would be allowed to stay if they could show valid citizenship documentation by 10th September. I scrambled for my passport – of course I had been told it was invalid, but it had never been taken away from me – perhaps in all the madness I would slip through the net? We could obtain proof of our identity by acquiring a special red card, the kipande. A number of our Ismaili friends had obtained it using their Ugandan passports.
Shahzeb and I went to the Immigration Office to wait in a queue a mile long – it took an entire day to reach the front! My dear, that long wait under the sweltering Ugandan sun felt like my sure descent to hell. I watched as the man in front of me, a man I knew from the community, was presented with the kipande. As he left, he turned to me and curled his lips, looking quite mad, one of the lenses of his glasses cracked right in the centre, branching off into a thousand tiny fissures. He had crossed the great chasm that divided us to become one of Them.
The clerk scanned my papers and nodded, tight-lipped. I barely dared to look at Shahzeb.
‘Saeed & Sons?’ the clerk eventually asked. I nodded, afraid to break my silence. He held up the papers to the light – my passport, my entry permit – and with a sudden and startling ferocity, ripped them to shreds right in front of my eyes.
Shahzeb banged a fist on the table: ‘How can you do that?’ he screamed.
‘Your papers were not valid,’ the clerk responded automatically. ‘NEXT!’
When such calamity befalls a person, life takes on a sheen of surrealism; as if you are living another’s life for a short while, observing indifferently. Everything grinds to a halt, because nothing matters in any event: not your livelihood, not your mortgage, not school for the children. None of it is yours any more.
Now, a change in focus: not how to stay, but how to leave?
Option 1: appeal to the British High Commission, as Shahzeb had always wanted me to. ‘I know a man with a Ugandan passport who managed to get a British passport,’ he told me. ‘Explain your situation, I have no doubt that they will be sympathetic.’
For, my dear, every member of my household – save for myself, of course – had elected at the time of independence to remain British. If each member of my family was to be ensured safe passage to Britain, surely we would not be separated; surely there was a way for me to go with them?
And so we queued once again, this time to enter the British Embassy, this queue tripled in size from the last. It took us two full days to reach the building front. Kampala ground to a halt whilst its Asian population waited like cattle; rows upon rows of white knuckles holding on to our precious identity papers for dear life, the sun beating down on us with a new, cruel intensity. Shabnam packed tiffin boxes and we sat on reed mats and waited, swatting away flies and street sellers, sweat dripping into our eyes whilst the soldiers sat watching the entire spectacle in the shade of acacia trees. A man from the British press came to observe us with a camera and an enormous microphone, stalking up and down the queue gaily, looking for someone who would talk to him. I turned my face away from the camera’s roving gaze, deeply embarrassed. Waiting two days in a queue is no easy feat, let me tell you. Dignity is lost in queues of such length; we pissed behind trees already stinking of stale urine, unable to wait in yet another line for the toilet. My poor boy Shahzeb slept in that queue overnight.
The closer we got, the worse it felt to be so close – until, finally, we arrived at the front – and after a quick flick through the papers, the officer behind the counter confirmed that Shabnam and the rest of the family were sanctioned to travel to Britain. Enthused, I presented my situation: please, officer, please allow me to enter. Do not separate me from my family. Recognise that I have no citizenship not through any fault of my own but for reasons I cannot explain.
But the officer was unmoved and he politely but firmly declined my appeal. I sensed no animosity, only sincerity: these were the rules and he was sorry, but he was obliged to follow them. I gave him a small and understanding smile, resigned to my fate.
Shahzeb took a harder line, declaring that he was a lawyer. ‘What you are doing, sir – turning your back on my father like this – is illegal according to the laws of the nations.’
‘I am sorry,’ the officer said, ‘but he renounced his British citizenship. He freely chose to do that and I’m afraid that’s on his head. There is simply nothing we can do in such circumstances.’
Option 2: well, my dear Amira, it seems that there were no more options left for me.
If you do not have Ugandan citizenship, and you do not have British citizenship, then you have no citizenship at all, and you are a ‘stateless’ person, as I found myself to be. To become stateless is to be expelled not only from Uganda, but from anywhere on Earth. I imagined myself as Armstrong, floating in outer space, untethered.
There was not an evening at home when Shabnam did not cry herself to sleep. Over the years I have grown used to her presence, her smell, her touch. ‘I will be lost without you,’ she whispered when I brought back her passport, which had been carefully inscribed with the names of our young children. ‘Where will we go?’
I paused. The Ugandan Argus had been placing advertisements from local organisations in England. The latest: Do not come to Leicester, Leicester is full. They have too many Asians already. But Leicester rang a bell, faintly. Yes – it was where the Mehtas had ended up after they had left Uganda in 1970! ‘You will go to Leicester,’ I told her. ‘The Mehtas are there, there is an Asian community there. Go to Leicester and I will come and find you.’
But even after they got their passports, their right lawfully to enter Great Britain, they did not go. Shabnam shuffled close to me at night. ‘They are not taking us, there are no planes yet,’ she murmured. ‘Maybe we will go somewhere else, not to Britain. Maybe we will stay together.’
‘Maybe,’ I replied, squeezing her shoulder and turning round so that she could not see my expression. Still, Amira, I had this fluttering, instinctual feeling that, somehow, in some way, I would stay. Maybe it is because your body is laid to rest here.
But the very next day, Amin declared that those of us who stayed beyond the deadline would be rounded up and sent to internment camps. This time, Shabnam choked on her tears as her fists pounded softly on my chest: ‘Enough, Hasan,’ she wept. ‘Please. You must leave.’ And this time, I accepted her instruction: even if she did not love me, at the very least, she needed me.
Tail between my legs, I went into Kampala to the United Nations’ office. Here, the queue was only a couple of hours’ wait; here, I saw my brown brothers and sisters leaving with expressions of relief. There were no soldiers watching, no press r
eporting. White faces smiled at me kindly. I exchanged a few completed forms for a plane ticket, and that was it, no questions asked.
So, there it was: we were all to leave Uganda, seemingly forevermore.
It had been some months since I had last seen Abdullah. The store is on temporary lockdown. Things have become difficult for people like him, who have sons in the military. Ibrahim has still not been found. But after I secured my passage out of Uganda, he came to the house to see us for one last time.
We all gathered in the drawing room.
‘I will go to Belgium and they will go to England,’ I told him as dispassionately as I could manage.
‘But I have no doubt you will return, my friend,’ Abdullah took my hands, which were trembling considerably. Aged by the tumult of the past few years, he seemed wiser than ever before.
Shahzeb’s eldest daughter – your namesake – only six years of age but perceptive enough to understand the significance of what was happening, said quite solemnly: ‘No goodbyes, Uncle.’
‘No goodbyes,’ Abdullah whispered back.
The silence in the room then was so heavy. I turned to look at the papers I had collected. Everything was ready: the stock transfer forms, the title deeds. ‘We’re giving everything to you, Abdullah,’ I said.